


Hero Worship

by Evaine



Category: Green Day, Metallica
Genre: M/M, Rock Stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-28
Updated: 2010-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:35:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evaine/pseuds/Evaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1996 and there are things you just have to do to get on in the music business. There are, however, side benefits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hero Worship

Industry parties. I fucking hate industry parties. Especially LA industry parties. I think most of us do, if we’re being honest. Well, maybe he doesn’t. He sure seems to be in his element.

I lean against the wall and watch him. I’ve watched him for a while now—years as a matter of fact. Ever since the day a long ago ex-girlfriend said we could be brothers.

I wonder if he’s going to notice me, but then, why should he? I’m just another of the new kids on the block, so to speak. At this fucking party because it’s what you do to make connections in this business, not because you actually want to meet people, have fun, get drunk or stoned. Business—it’s all about business. Fuck, I hate the business side of what I do. That’s one thing we _don’t_ share.

I sip at my gin and tonic and try to appear nonchalant. I hate this shit, but hopefully it doesn’t show; I already have a reputation for being a little difficult. I grin inwardly. A little?

I scan the crowd again. My eyes are drawn to him in spite of me telling myself to grow the fuck up. It’s not hero worship, it’s really not. Oh, who the fuck am I kidding—it’s hero worship plain and simple.

Everyone’s here it seems. All the big names. I spot Slash of Guns ‘n’ Roses, smashed out of his mind, sitting in the corner of the room holding court, Duff McKagan at his side. There’s Mustaine of Megadeath, the latest incarnation of his band nearby. A couple of the guys from Pantera, Baz from Skid Row—yeah, all the biggies are here.

My eyes stray to a long form sprawled on a chair, listening with half an ear and a look of infinite boredom on his face to the suit next to him. James Hetfield of Metallica. I’ve looked up to him for years. Before moulding my music and my band into the punk sound that defines us, I wanted us to be the next Metallica. I wanted to play fat, chunky guitar riffs just like Hetfield.

Where the hell has he gone? Fuck, I’ve lost sight of him. Damn! I sip at my drink, eyes scanning the room. I refuse to examine why I need to find him. Tre teases me all the time about it—calls me a squealing fangirl. I’ve thrown things at him. Have I mentioned I have a temper? Something else I hear we have in common.

I fish a cigarette out of the almost-new pack in my pocket and flick my lighter, my eyes still searching for that elusive form.

“Hey, got a light?” That slightly accented drawl sounds quietly behind me and I spin about, my heart suddenly in my mouth. Annoyed at myself, I order myself to stay cool.

“Sure.” I give him a small grin and look directly into kohl-rimmed green eyes. Eyes that are so much like the ones that stare back at me from the mirror each day.

He bends toward me slightly as I flick my lighter back to life and he leans in. Smoke wafts up between us. Holy fuck, he’s still looking at me. His lips are curving into a smile around the cigarette gripped lightly between them.

“Thanks.” He nods slightly but shows no sign of moving away. Does he want to talk? Shit—to me? In the back of my mind I hear Tre snickering and mentally tell him to go fuck himself.

“Billie Joe Armstrong.” I extend my hand, hoping like hell that it’s not as damp as I fear it is.

“Lars… Lars Ulrich.” He grips my hand and gives it a firm shake, his eyes never leaving my face. “Like your music, man.” He gives me an approving smile and suddenly I’m not a twenty-four year old shit-hot rockstar, but a blushing stammering twelve-year old.

“Uh… um… thanks… uh, really.” Fuck! Do I sound as lame as I think I do? Probably. I groan inwardly and proceed to sound even more idiotic. “Loved your stuff for years… uh… inspiring… shit… you know.”

“Thanks.” He’s smiling—fuck—he’s actually pleased by my stupid, fumbling remarks. He tilts his head slightly, a tilt I’ve studied and emulated, knowing exactly how fucking attractive it can be, and suddenly I feel myself growing hard in my pants while the echo of Tre’s snicker turns to outright laughter.

“Kirk was right.” He leans against the wall, giving me his full attention, hands shoved in the pockets of his dark slacks. “Hammett, you know? Guitar guy?” He grins, mischief giving those cupid bow lips a crooked quirk.

“Yeah, I know who Kirk is,” I reply, leaning my own shoulders against the wall and hooking my thumbs through my belt loops. “Told you, been a fan since I was a kid.” A little belligerence has crept into my voice and it’s good to know that I’ve managed to keep at least a small part of me from slipping into total fan worship.

“You that much younger than me?” His expression is amazed, but his eyes are sparkling with humour.

“About eight and a half years.” I wasn’t about to tell him that I had it calculated out to the very number of days. “So what was Kirk right about anyway?” I turned my gaze out towards the crowd, hoping like hell that the bored nonchalance I was trying to affect was at least working somewhat.

“He said you were enough like me to be my kid brother.” Lars laughs softly and a thrill of excitement shoots through me.

I wasn’t born fucking yesterday; the man is flirting with me! And damn it if it isn’t working. My pants are even tighter now, but do I hide that fact? No fucking way. If anything, I cock my hips a little more forward and hope like hell that he notices.

“He has a point.” His eyebrow rises as his gaze flickers down from my face for just a moment. “Sure you don’t have Danish in you somewhere?”

“Not yet.” Fuck! Did I actually fucking say that out loud? Yes, fool, I actually did. I put my cigarette to my lips and glance at him from the corner of my eye, fully expecting him to be walking away in disgust.

“Should look into that. Never know what you might find.” Is that interest I see in those familiar eyes? Interest? In me? Holy fuck!

He’s introducing me to people now. People whose names I’m sure I’ll remember at some point, but at the moment, I can only think of his shoulder brushing mine, his eyes meeting mine as we make nice with the ‘suits’, his hand on the small of my back as he guides me to the next group of people.

All the sounds in the room are faded, muted; and I swear I’m trying to pay attention to the balding man in the blue suit, but that hand—that hand is moving just a little lower until it rests right at the top of my ass. Fuck it’s warm in this room! I’m trying to be the cool rock star, but I can feel fangirl Billie Joe squealing at the realisation that Lars fucking Ulrich is touching me.

We find ourselves in the far corner of the room, away from the whirl of chattering people. It’s quieter here, darker. He pulls out his pack of smokes and offers me one. I shake my head, but pull out my lighter, ready to light the one he sticks between his lips. I hold the flame to the tip of his cigarette and his hand curls around mine, holding it steady.

“Hey fellas, mind if I get a shot or two?” It’s the fucking photographer. There’s always a fucking photographer at these events, snapping pictures for posterity. I hate them. I hate this one, especially.

A moment later, I want to kiss him.

“Sure.” Lars, ever gracious, turns and leans against me, giving the camera that smug smirk that I’ve never been able to copy. I turn to give the camera the pout that serves as my smile and feel his hand drift down over my ass and stay there. It fucking stays there! The flash goes off and while I’m still blinking the sparks from my eyes, the photographer murmurs his thanks and disappears; and I’m being guided by that hand back into the shadowed recesses of the corner.

“Quieter back here,” the owner of the hand says softly as he leans up against the wall and takes a drag on his cigarette. I’m beginning to wish that I’d taken one for myself, because I sure as hell don’t know what to do with my hands. All I know is that I’m mesmerized by the way the smoke is curling from his mouth as he exhales, his eyes glittering in the dim light filtering into the corner through a very conveniently placed backless bookcase cum room divider. I wonder fleetingly if it was our host’s intention to provide such a quiet alcove for his guests more… intimate conversations. I can hear Tre in the recesses of my mind howling with laughter—it’s rock ’n’ roll, dude, of course it was intentional.

“You like these fucking things, huh?” I ask, meaning the party. A slow smile curves his lips and his gaze isn’t meeting my eyes anymore, it’s lingering on my mouth. A wash of heat flows through me and settles deep within my balls, curling and heavy. I take a step forward. I know that look on his face, I’ve seen it on my own, he’s fucking turned on and wants me to know it. Wants me to do something about it.

“Yeah, I like ‘em.” My dick twitches in my pants. He’s not meaning the party and I’m not so star-struck that I don’t realise it. I take another step closer to him, wanting just to feel that mouth on mine, press my body against his, grind my hips into his. I lean into him—we’re much the same height—intending to kiss those damned full, pouting lips.

“Billie Joe.” He says my name thoughtfully, raising his hand to take my chin between his fingers. “B.J.” He chuckles, low in his throat and my dick twitches again. “You live up to your name?” He raises one eyebrow. “I’m curious.” His hand releases my chin and moves to my shoulder, exerting a gentle pressure.

Do I think of pausing? Do I ask myself what the fuck I’m doing? Do I even ask myself if I’m dreaming? Fuck no… I sink to my knees in front of him and place a hand over the bulge in his pants as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. I’m going to suck off the man I’ve idolized for years; I’m going to take his dick in my mouth. I twist open the button of his pants. I tug down the zipper. I bite back the moan that threatens as I glimpse the head of his erect cock rising above the waistband of low-slung dark briefs. His hips cant up slightly as my hands push down on the pants and briefs, freeing his cock so that it bounces lightly against my lips. I can’t stop the moan this time. Fuck, I want to taste him so fucking bad!

I grasp his hips and run my tongue over the velvety skin of the head of his cock. I glance up, wanting to see his reaction at my touch and he looks down and gives me a slight grin of encouragement. Or is it approval? Or both? His free hand moves to the back of my head and pushes lightly. I open my mouth and his dick slides inside. His hand stays, cupping my head in a firm but gentle grasp.

He’s leaning his shoulders against the wall, one hand hanging at his side, cigarette dangling between his fingers, as he gazes through the bookcase out into the room. The light from the other side of the divider is hitting him right at the eyes—it reminds me of those meaningful facial shots from the original Star Trek series, highlighting just the eyes. I watch even as I begin to lick and suck at his cock, and see his eyes tighten just a bit at the corners.

I’ve sucked cock before—been told I’m quite good at it—but this is _him_ , this is the man I’ve emulated for years, this is fucking Lars, man. I’m sucking cock like I’ve never fucking sucked before. I want to give him a blow job that he’ll never fucking forget.

Circling the base of his cock with one hand, I slide the other towards the back to grip his ass, his nicely muscled ass. God, what a fucking turn-on! I curve my tongue around the underside of his dick as I pull my mouth slowly up his length, sucking gently. I hear a small sigh from above and take it as a sign that what I’m doing meets with his approval. I swirl my tongue about the head and am rewarded by another soft intake of breath. His fingers move slightly on the back of my head as I move my mouth down the side of his cock, lips nibbling, tongue licking. The sounds from the room fade further and I’m aware only of his breathing and the gentle slurp of my tongue on him, making those breaths come a little faster. I cover his cock with my mouth again and draw him in, feeling his ass tighten beneath my hand as he thrusts forward.

I look up.

He’s still gazing through the bookcase, eyes half shut now, lips parted slightly in a small smile. In the dim light, I can see that his cheeks are flushed. I settle into a rhythm of sucking and licking just as he gives a little start and I realise that he’s let his cigarette burn down, forgotten, to the point where it’s stung his fingers. The butt drops and his foot moves to crush it as he leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes with another small sigh. Both my hands are on his ass now and I close my own eyes, concentrating on the hardness filling my mouth. I wonder what it would feel like pumping into my ass instead of my throat and moan softly. It would feel incredible.

He’s close now—I can sense it. I begin to suck harder, drawing my cheeks in, pressing with my tongue. His breath is coming in soft gasps and he brings his other hand to the back of my head, holding me there, fingers buried in my hair. His hips are pumping in time with my sucking and he’s fucking my mouth and I can’t concentrate on anything other than the end of his dick banging at the back of my throat. I relax my muscles and take him in as far as I possibly can. I want everything. I want to devour him whole.

“Jesus!” It’s a quiet, urgent grunt as he gives a hard jerk and hot, thick come begins to shoot down my throat. His hands hold my head tightly against him and I eagerly take every bit of what he’s giving me, my own fingers digging into the flesh of his ass. He relaxes gradually and I slowly bring my mouth off him; I want to lick up every last bit of come before releasing him.

I sit back on my haunches, running my tongue over my bottom lip and watch him as he gathers himself. After a few deep breaths, he straightens and pulls his pants and briefs up from his hips in one swift movement, buttons and zips. He pushes off from the wall and reaches down to rub his thumb against my lips.

“Nice.” His voice is soft. “Named well.” He gives me a swift grin and moves past me, heading back out into the room.

“Fuck!” I stare at his retreating back, my dick so hard it’s painful. He’s fucking _leaving?_ What the _fuck! Son of a fucking bitch!_

The noise from the party comes roaring back and I get to my feet feeling stunned and yes, fucking annoyed, even bordering on angry. Never mind fucking frustrated.

“Hey Lars!” As I watch from my suddenly lonely seclusion, I see McKagan approach him and sling a companionable arm about his shoulders. Lars’ hand comes up and strokes his back for a moment and they head into the crowd of people, disappearing from my sight.

“Fucking bastard!” I lean against the corner of the bookcase and fish a cigarette from my pack and light it. Tre’s voice is snickering in my head again—rock stars, fucking rock stars. I drag on my cigarette and can still taste Lars amidst the acrid, smokey flavour of the tobacco. I push off from the bookcase with a sigh and do my best to ignore the thread of sadness wound through my frustration and anger. “Fucking rock stars.”

Have I mentioned I hate these fucking industry parties?  


**Author's Note:**

> Ang! Oh, Ang! This baby was dead in the water until you arrived with carrots in hand. Thank YOU! And, as well, thank you for the terrific beta! And Joolz! Thank you for the support and encouragement - Billie Joe rules, right! Pouts and green eyes - yummers!


End file.
